My Story.....

David Jones

David Jones

I was 38 and moving house and job - always a stressful time, but worse in this case, because I was moving from Holland to Scotland. My wife and children had moved before me to find a house for the start of the school term.

I was invited to friends one night for a farewell dinner, which I gladly accepted. The following morning I awoke - late - with a 'funny' headache. I'd had quite a bit to drink the previous night, so I assumed it was a hangover ... but not your normal hangover. Probably cheap wine, I suspected, and went back to sleep. I got up later and got dressed. Looking back, I realise my fingers weren't working properly. I was having problems with shirt buttons and shoelaces, but I didn't notice it at the time. It wasn't until the phone rang that I realised something was amiss. I couldn't talk!

I didn't really know what to do. So I left my flat and went round to see some neighbours - good friends from Sweden. The daughter opened the door. She knew me well, but closed the door in my face, shouting upstairs "Mummy - there's a strange man at the door!" Mummy came down, recognised me fortunately and ushered me in. By now the full enormity of my condition was becoming clear: I knew I couldn't talk, but nor could I eat or drink without dribbling from my numb mouth. She called an ambulance immediately, and I was whisked off to the nearby hospital.

The examination was difficult because I was communicating by scribbles in a note-pad. A number of doctors saw me, and eventually decided I had rabies. I asked (using my trusty notepad) if it was OK for me to take the ferry in a few days and drive to Scotland. "Yes" they said, "No problem - this sort of thing normally clears up in a few days". So I went home with my friends and started packing for my trip to Aberdeen.

But it didn't clear up.

A second doctor came to see me and took a different view. He arranged for me to be taken to another hospital where I was seen by a consultant. They weren't sure what the matter was, but they knew one thing: they knew that it was serious and within 30 minutes I was in the Intensive Treatment Unit. Numerous tests were done, and eventually they decided that I had a viral infection to some nerves in my spinal chord.

I vividly remember being visited by the speech therapist who performed a lengthy examination of my vocal chords. After she left, I thought I would go through the alphabet to see how many sounds I could make. I could manage 'm'. That was it.

The next few weeks were interesting. My Swedish friend visited me daily, so that the staff assumed she was my wife. My real wife visited me, as did my mother. I found my emotions on these occasions were heightened. I was unable to prevent myself crying. And day-in, day-out I continued to have tests. It wasn't until nearly two weeks later that it was decided that I had had a stroke. (In fact, I'd had had two strokes - one on each side of my brain, which had added to the general confusion!)

After two weeks I was transferred from ITU to a normal ward. (I had only 'died' once, and because I recovered all by myself, they thought I was OK for the real world!) I had daily physiotherapy, which seemed a complete waste of time - I was fitter than the nurse! I had twice daily speech therapy, which seemed to be getting nowhere - I could still only manage 'm'. And I had numerous tests. What I didn't have was a reasonable meal, because I still had tubes down my throat feeding me with a strange custard-like concoction. I did, though, get lots of sleep; sometimes as much as sixteen hours a day!

After four weeks they decided I was fit enough to travel to Aberdeen. My Swedish friend came with me. By now I could manage 'm' and 'n'. Pretty impressive, I thought, but not enough to check in at the airport by myself.

I returned to Aberdeen, and the long slog started. I had twice weekly trips to speech therapy and daily exercises (I remember having to read a passage out loud about Big Ben while holding a bag of frozen peas on my neck!). I also had numerous tests and scans (blood, heart, brain ... you name it) and, of course, I had to return to work. My employer had been very sympathetic and I was off work on full pay, but a plan was being hatched to get me back. As my speech slowly recovered, so did my confidence. I was also much less tired. I returned to work part time after two months. Only a few half days at first, but gradually building up after a full six months to a normal five-day week.

That was eleven years ago. I still have a significant speech defect, and I can be hard to understand, but otherwise I lead a normal life. I only recently gave up squash in favour of less taxing exercise (as you can see from my photo, I enjoy some pretty demanding hill walking!) and I still work full time.

Five things still make my speech go pear-shaped:

...but I still go skiing, where five out of these five are normally the case.

Thanks to David for sending in his profile. Anyone else who would like to share their story can send it along with a photograph (if you're not shy!)


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